Grumpy
by JantoJones
Summary: Illya seems to be moodier than usual.


Napoleon Solo had been in the building all of ten minutes and he'd already received four complaints about his partner. All of them regarding Illya's foul temper and the way he was speaking to people. Stepping out of the elevator, into the corridor which housed his office, he was almost knocked from his feet by Mary from archives. He was about to make a flippant observation when he realised she was crying.

"Hey, what's the matter?"

"Mr Kuryakin just yelled at me," she sobbed. "He claimed I forgot one of the files he asked for, and I know he didn't ask for it."

"You know what he gets like," Solo stated, trying to be Devil's advocate. "He sometimes forgets that people have feelings."

"We're all well used to his cranky moods," Mary replied, accepting Napoleon's handkerchief. "But this was different. His face was inches from mine as he shouted. It was frightening."

Mary had been at U.N.C.L.E. almost as long as Napoleon had, and she knew all too well how to deal with temperamental agents. She easily accepted that most of them where wound up pretty taut and occasionally let their tension get the better of them. It was water off a duck's back to Mary. The fact she had been reduced to tears was a great concern for Napoleon.

"I'll sort this out Mary," he told her, with a kiss to her forehead. "Go home and take the rest of the day to yourself."

When he entered the office, Illya was flipping through the pages of a file with apparent aggression.

"I need a word."

"Can't it wait?" Illya snapped back. "I'm very busy."

"No Agent Kuryakin, it can't wait!"

Illya slammed the file shut, folded his arms and glared hard at his partner. Napoleon was not afraid of the glare, but he was growing even more troubled. He never addressed Illya as 'agent', and had expected at least a response of curiosity. Yet, Illya had answered to it.

"I've had several complaints about your attitude today. You also made Mary cry, and that takes some doing."

"If she did her job properly, I would have no need to admonish her."

"Even if there were a need," Napoleon countered. "There are better ways of doing it. What's going on Tovarisch?"

"Tovarisch?"

The alarm bell which sounded in Napoleon's head was so loud he was surprised it couldn't be heard throughout HQ.

"This question may seem to be a bit of a non sequitur, but remind me what your mother's patronymic was."

A look of confusion fleeted across Illya's face. "What do you mean?"

"I'll make it easier," Napoleon continued. "What was your mother's full name?"

Illya jumped to his feet and pushed Napoleon against the wall.

"I refuse to discuss my mother with you. No-one here knows her name."

"I know it, because he told me. Where is Illya Kuryakin?"

Napoleon swung a fist up and struck the man, claiming to be Illya, hard. He landed heavily but, before he could get back up, Solo had his gun trained on him. The CEA picked up the phone and called for security.

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Illya was feeling grumpier than ever. He had been locked in a dark and dank cell twenty-four hours previously, and that was it. The cell had a mattress, a bucket, a washstand and a heavy chain which tethered Illya's left ankle to the floor. He knew it was THRUSH who had taken him, but he hadn't seen anyone since they'd put him in here. There'd been no questioning or torture and Illya was very bored and extremely hungry. He lay back on the mattress and did the only thing he could do while he waited.

He was just drifting off to sleep when he was brought back to wakefulness by the sounds of gunfire. Illya was instantly on his feet, looking out through the bars for, what he hoped, was his rescue. Finally, he was blessed with the sight of his partner.

"Where have you been?" He demanded, playfully.

"Believe it or not, I've been with you," Napoleon told him as he freed the confused Russian.

"I haven't eaten for quite some time, so my ability to comprehend may have been compromised."

Napoleon explained about the doppelgänger. They'd managed to make an almost perfect copy of Illya. He had the Russian's face, mannerisms and accent, but they had failed to teach him any Russian language or culture.

"So that's how you knew he wasn't me?"

"Well, not just that Tovarisch," Napoleon said, as he put an arm around his friend. "We are all used to our little grumpy cloud of gloom, but for some reason, the intelligence that THRUSH has of you paints you as angry, impatient and cruel."

Illya raised an eyebrow. "Little grumpy cloud of gloom?" He asked, with a chuckle. "As epithets go, I quite like that one."

"Illya, what was your mother called?"

"You know what Mama's name was."

Napoleon begged Illya's indulgence, explaining that the imposter couldn't answer the question.

"She was called Kira Illyinichna Kuryakina. I was named for her father."

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Sitting at her desk in the archives, Mary was surprised when a large bouquet of flowers walked in. A blond head appeared around the edge of the flowers and smiled.

"I hope these will make up for what my evil twin did," Illya said to her.

"You don't need to make any apologies Mr Kuryakin," she answered, blushing furiously. "Mr Solo explained that it wasn't you."

"Even so," he replied, handing her the massive bouquet. "I would hate you to keep thinking of that distressing event every time you see me. Do you think your husband would allow me to take you to dinner? He would also be welcome if he so wishes."

"It really isn't necessary," she protested. "But, I'm sure my husband could spare me for one evening."

The End.


End file.
